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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.? 



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| UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 



THE 



SILENT RIVER; 



A DRAMATIC POEM 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN; 



A DRAMATIC POEM, 







BY 



ROBERT SULIVAN. 



LONDON : 

PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, 

AVE -MARIA LANE. 



1824. 






LONDON : 

PHINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIAUS. 



TO T. CAMPBELL, Esq. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

It is not without much hesitation that I 
venture to dedicate to you this small, and, per- 
haps, worthless volume. Worthless, however, 
as it may be, it is the best I can offer, and I beg 
you to accept it as a testimony of sincere gra- 
titude for kindness upon which I had no claim, 
and good offices which I can never repay. 

With regard to the poems which it contains, 
I can say but little. The first was written 
amongst the scenes in which it is laid ; and if 
(as will no doubt be the case) it is considered 
in many respects rough and unfinished, I can 



IV DEDICATION. 

only hope that the fault will be attributed to an 
over-diffidence in retouching a transcript from 
Nature (the nearest which I had ability to 
make), and not to any carelessness of compo- 
sition, or improper confidence in the indulgence 
of the reader. For the second, I have no excuse, 
excepting that, to the best of my belief, the 
story is true. 

I can only add, that in the event either of 
success or failure, the pains which these pages 
have cost me are already repaid by the oppor- 
tunity which they afford of subscribing myself, 
Ever, my dear sir, 
Your grateful and affectionate friend, 

ROBERT SULIVAN. 

Weybridge, April 17, 1824. 



rii 



IHE SILENT RIVER. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 

Rayland 

Luke. 

Caleb. 

Mary. 



b 2 



PART I. 



Scene. — An extensive marsh, a river winding through 
it — Luke and Caleb in a boat, having just drawn 
in their net. 

LUKE. 

Again successless ! I will toil no more. 

CALEB. 

Another cast, good Luke. 

LUKE. 

P faith, no more. 
This ancient river, like the world around it, 
Is far too subtle in its crooks and corners 
To yield a morsel where it most is needed. 

CALEB (fastening the boat, and coming forward) . 
Why, then we '11 cease. — Sit down. — Here is a couch 
Of the fresh flags, bedropp'd with flowers of June, 



6 THE SILENT RIVER. 

And you are weary. — See, your flask is full — 
You Ve tasted nought since day-break. 

LUKE. 



I have felt 



No hunger. 

CALEB. 

Nor yet thirst ? 

LUKE. 



Nor thirst. 



CALEB. 

Come, you are much o'er-labour'd ; and for once 
I am the better man. — Let 's to the boat, 
And I will push you home. 

LUKE, 

Not home, my friend 
I cannot bear the sight of that poor cabin. 

CALEB. 

Does it not shelter a young, loving wife, 

Who never met you but with smiles and fondness ? 

LUKE. 

Therefore it is my heart doth ache at it. 

It should have been less lowly ; then those smiles 

Had dimpled in a fitter dwelling-place. 



THE SILENT RIVER. / 

CALEB 

Yet she is happy. 

LUKE 

She would have it seem so : 
But happiness sports on a cheek unstain'd 
By recent tears. Howe'er her love may prompt 
To kind deceit, she cannot choose but feel 
The heavy load of toilsome poverty, 
When she beholds the comforts whence I snatch'd her. 

CALEB. 

If 'twere not for the skill, acquired only 

By length of practice, in our hardy craft ; 

Your sun-burnt swarth, and sinews braced by labour ; 

I should have said you too were better known 

To better fortunes. But I do not ask — 

Enough for me to know that I have found 

A bold companion, who can face the peril 

Of winter floods, in dead of winter's midnight. 

A hand that well can guide the slender skiff 

When plains of ice have scudded o'er these willow-tops, 

And then with equal readiness bring down 

The wild bird from his clamorous multitude. 



8 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Enough, that when the watery wilderness 
With brawling streams divides the reeking marsh 
And dwindles in the sun-beams of the Spring, 
None can so well hang o'er these hollow banks, 
To snatch subsistence from the subtle tribe 
Beneath them. What remains in mystery — 
Your brow which ne'er hath brighten'd to a smile. 
Your silence, all unbroken save to me, 
And, more than this, your ill-disguised reluctance 
To share the profits which our toils have won — 
A mystery be it, if it must be so. 

LUKE. 

I have no mystery, Caleb. If I spoke 

But little of myself, it was because 

I thought the tale too idle. It is now 

Ten months, or more, since that bleak pitiless night 

Which found me shivering at your cottage door : 

My wife lay almost senseless in my arms, 

With little else to shield her from the blast : 

She was o'erpower'd with hunger and fatigue : 

Yet you can witness that she spoke no word 

Of bitterness, and smiled upon my agony. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 9 

CALEB. 

I well remember it : you were benighted, 
And could not travel home. 

LUKE. 

I had no home : 
You guess'd it well, but were too kind to say it. 
That night ! that night ! I only turn to it 
To show how long I !ve lived in debt to you— 
You took me in — then found my little cot; 
Supplied me with immediate means of life, 
And all the implements to gain them afterwards. 
Since then how oft you 've cheer'd my sinking heart 
With all the kindness which our humble lot 
Is master of! 

CALEB. 

Why, you repaid it to me. 

LUKE. 

I cannot think of it, and let concealment 
Of my past fortunes seem, as sure it must, 
A coldness to repose that trust in you, 
Which, after all, seems greater than it is. 
How far is 't hence to that low shaded village 



10 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Which hides itself beneath the branching chestnuts, 
And elms that deck the pride of Ray land Hall ? 

CALEB. 

A dreary fifteen miles across the marsh. 

LUKE. 

And every step did my young", tender wife 

Tread on that night of which we spoke. The lord 

Of Rayland Hall stands loftier than his neighbours : 

His country views him as a man of trust ; 

His vassals dread him as a man of power ; 

And all the world doth reverence his name 

As one most just in dealing with his fellows, 

And strict in all the duties of his faith — 

Yet, is it said, this lord of Rayland Hall, 

As many years ago as I am old, 

Was less austere, and something given to sports 

Such as high blood and lavish means are used to. 

He saw his father s mansion for a season ; 

Then, heedless, sought delights beyond the sea. 

Alas ! my mother was too young and fair ! 

She had no other faults — She never told 

My father's name, lest the grey-headed lord 



THE SILENT RIVER. 11 

Should kindle at his favourite's misdeed. 
She was thrust forth with shame from the wide door 
Where none but she had pled in vain for help. 
Yet she was silent. She lay on the pallet 
Of sickness and of misery, yet still 
Betray'd him not. The midnight pass'd away — 
Morn came — and all who fear'd another pang- 
Might rend the secret from her were at rest, 
And so was she. 

CALEB. 

Come, 'tis a piteous tale — 
We '11 choose some other time. 

LUKE. 

I 'm in the mood 
Just now. One who did tend upon my mother 
In charity, a gentle-hearted widow, 
Took the poor urchin who was left behind, 
And rear'd me in her thrifty home. For her 
I learnt th' adventurous craft of those who live 
By flood and forest ; for, whatever my state, 
My father's blood, his high imperious blood, 
Had made me all unlit for meaner toil ; 
Howbeit, I then was ignorant why my spirit 



12 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Ran counter to an honest industry. 

At last, the old lord died. The new one came. 

Some score of years had taught him to feel shame 

For his youth's licence — but taught no atonement* 

He had a wife, and other sons born fairly — 

What should he with the lawless nursling of 

An humble, broken-hearted peasant girl ? 

Day after day the lonely woman pass'd 

To Rayland Hall, and turn'd again in tears; 

She never breathed her errand till the hour 

She died — and then she told me how some chance 

Possess'd her of my mother's well-kept secret, 

And how repeatedly she pray'd in vain 

Lord Rayland to receive his own. 

CALEB. 

This story 
Puts me the more to shame that my poor means 
Could yield no better aid. 

LUKE. 

Like my grave sire, 
I had a heart that panted at the glow 
Of virgin beauty in its bashful spring. 
We differ'd only in the soil we hunted; 



THE SILENT RIVER. 13 

For mine was far above me, and the maid 

A fitting mate for Rayland's lawful hope — 

'Twere long to tell thee how I woo'd, how won her; 

Or how her house rejected her with scorn, 

As a fair blossom blighted past recovery : — 

My heart was light ; it rested upon victory, 

And we lived joyously — I think I said 

The widow died. Her cottage and her pittance 

Devolved on those who long had look'd for them, 

And I and my poor Mary had the heavens, 

And them alone, to shelter us. My birth, 

But newly known to me, directed where 

I should demand a home, and the fond arms 

Which twined about me for support, inspired 

Becoming confidence to urge my claim. 

Well then, I led her trembling to the hall ; 

And then — O, mercy! what a look was hers ! — 

When 'stead of nature's kindness, our last hope, 

A troop of minions drove us from the door 

With shouts and laughter, as audacious vagrants ! 

We took our way in silence ; neither dared 

Give breath to the wild anguish of our souls, 

Or plan our conduct thence — There was none for us — 



14 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Forlorn, indignant, houseless, and distracted, 
We pass'd we knew not whither; for our senses 
Were numb'd, and our lips frozen by man's cruelty 
We never stopp'd, till at your cottage door 
My wife sighed softly, she could move no farther. 

CALEB. 

'Twas well she could not ; for you ne'er had pass'd 

The waste beyond it which we now survey, 

Endless, without a tree, or fisher s hut, 

Or living thing, except the plaintive lapwing, 

Disporting querulous round her unfledged brood — 

But see, the moonlight steals upon our talk ; 

Your wife sits lonely at her wheel beside 

The willowy ford, and thinks each little cloud 

That darkling flits across the placid stream 

Her well beloved, Lord Rayland's hard-used son— 

If he hath heart of man, he must relent. 

LUKE. 

He shall relent : I can no longer strive 

To see unmoved that slender graceful form 

Bending to all the lowly offices 

Of the poor station to which / have brought her 

The tear in secret, lest to-day's supply 



THE SILENT RIVER, 15 

Should be denied to-morrow ; her cheek pale 
With over- watchfulness; her white hand blister'd 

With labour, such as she had lately wept 

To hear of in another — Yes. friend Caleb, 

He shall relent — I '11 cross him on the grave 

Of my dead mother. I will watch his prayers. 

And, when he calls for pardon, start before him, 

And let my frantic visage howl despair ! 

Well, well — no more just now — I see my hardships 

Have damp'd a brow which quail'd not to its own. 

I have detained you past the hour appointed 

To see you at the rich abode of him 

Who lords it o'er this barren wild, and all 

Who starve upon it 

CALEB. 

I will go — -but think — 
Your wife is fearful when vour stay is long — 
My way lies through the moor ; yours down the river 

LUKE. 

I shall be soon at home. 

CALEB. 

But let me see 
Your boat m motion 



36 THE SILENT RIVER. 

LUKE. 

There is time enough. 

CALEB. 

Now, if it were not for that helpless wife, 

Who looks alone to you for happiness, 

I would not trust you 'mid these pools to-night 

Your look is not as it was heretofore, 

And your heart's vigour has waned day by day, 

Till your strange ponderings fright me. 

LUKE. 

O, no wonder S 
I have such power to do the world a mischief ! 
Perhaps I ponder if your master's call 
Portends a harder tenure of these rare 
Wild goose domains, where thieves must needs be 
honest. 

CALEB. 

'Tis well they lack encouragement, or else 

Yon long bleak road would yield a prize to-night 

Were worth the winning. A groom, bravely borne, 

And shining with embroider'd coronets, 

Last eve pass'd to the house of Willowmead, 

And said his lord to-night would lodge him them 



THE SILENT RIVER. 17 

There are some one or two of our worn brethren 
Who would not sleep upon the news. 

LUKE, (pausing, and speaking tvith disorder). 

Why — what— 
What should they do ? 

CALEB. 

What, but to name, would fright 
Both you and me. 

luke, (vaguely). 

Ay — very true — good night. 

CALEB. 

Good night. At day-break we '11 renew our labours. 
luke, (alone. With increasing agitation) . 
" He said his lord to-night would lodge him there ?" 
The road is very lonely; — and what then } 
Though all the world were slumbering, what should 
The traveller fear from Rayland's eldest born ? 
Let Rayland answer it. The double guilt — 
What he begat in sin he took no heed 
Should live in honesty. I '11 roam awhile 
About the moonlight waste in search of something 
To sway the shuddering balance between guilt 
And wretchedness. Some hidden spirit seems 

c 



18 THE SILENT RIVER. 

To impel my feet upon the stranger's path, 
And the still wave already shows my image 
Like the black spectre of a murderer ! 
I 'd pray, but dare not — my own mind appals me ! 



PART II. 



Scene before Luke's Cottage. 'Nearly day~break. 

MARY, (entering in a hurried manner). 
No, no — it is not him. I have pursued 
A thousand shadows of the fleeting* heavens 
Instead of him. Why wilt thou stay ? dear Luke? 
I am alone, and have no hope but thee ! (listens)- 
He never yet did pass the night from me 
But he did come to bless and bid me comfort. 
Now it is morning when he leaves his home, 
And almost morn ere he returns to it. 
This fearful waste has many a deep morass 
And flooded pit, from which the labourer 
Hath borne his reeking fuel ; and the river 

c 2 



20 THE SILENT RIVER. 

A thousand horrid, sucking, silent whirlpools. 

God ! if toiling for his wretched burthen — 
His faithful, fervent,, but no less his burthen — 
Thine eye should cease to guard him, where would 

be, 
On earth, a being so desolate as I ? (listens), 

1 hear him not. I will return to where 

I found his boat moor'd to the bank ; and there 

1 11 watch the stars as they go out. It was 

So €old, this morning air, I could not bear it, 

But now methinks I can. Perhaps it was 

The fearful speed of that improvident horseman, 

Who flew so blindly o'er his perilous path 

And flung the clay against my cheek, that shot 

A chilness through me. {listens), 'Tis a step I hear ! 

But surely not my Luke's — it is too slow 

And loitering. He comes more impatiently! 

Mary, Luke. 
Dear — dearest — most unkind, where hast thou been? 
I've had a dreadful night — but now no more on% 
I have the truant at my heart again. 
But say, what kept thee, Luke. 'Twas surely much 
That made thee leave me for so long? 



THE SILENT RIVER. 21 

LUKE. 

'Twas much 
Indeed. But do not question now, my Mary. 
What, hast thou watch'd all night ? 

MARY. 

How could I sleep ? 
I have sat guardian o'er thy evening meal 
Till my thoughts stray'd, and then the mournful 

embers 
Sank with my sinking heart. And then I plaited 
Rushes and yellow flags fantastically 
For Caleb's laughing urchins when they come 
To nestle round the fisher's " Lady wife ;" 
And then — What signifies what followed ? Come ; 
For thou art wet and hungry. I will make 
Our hearth blaze up with joy for thy return. 

LUKE. 

God bless 1 thee, Mary ! Dear, go in — I '11 follow ; 
The air 's refreshing, and I am not well. 

MARY. 

Not well! Oh, no! there's light enough to see 
How pale thou art. And thou art trembling too, 
As if an ague were upon thee ! Oh, 



22 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Ye heavens, ye will not harm him, for ye know 
His trials have but shown his honesty 
More worthy of your love. 

luke, (much agitated). 

Hush — hush, my Mary. 

MARY. 

How is it, Luke ? And what is in your hand 
At which you gaze so piteously? Nay, speak ! 
Indeed, indeed, you terrify me, Luke. 

LUKE. 

What didst thou ask ? 

MARY. 

Oh, any thing ; but chiefly 
How dost thou ? 

LUKE. 

Well, or ill — or both. I know not— 
I am bewilder'd. Here is gold for thee. 

MARY. 

Gold ! and so weighty ! 

LUKE. 

Ay — enough to keep us, 
With some slight help from labour, all our lives. 



THE SILENT RIVER, 23 

MARY. 

Why, Luke, whence came it ? 

LUKE. 

Dost thou think it came 
Dishonestly ? 

MARY. 

I will be sworn it did not ! 
No — though thou'rt sorely dealt with, and com- 
pelled 
To toil for sustenance, thou still hast borne 
The noblest veins that own Lord Rayland's blood. 
Come in, and tell me what hath soften'd him 
To send this kindly aid. 

LUKE. 

My father send it ! 
I will not curse him lest the words recoil 
On thee, my girl. No, no, he sent it not. 

MARY. 

Why is this mystery? 

luke, {after a long pause) . 

I had a friend — 
One whom you never saw : he died this morning, 
And left me this — the earnings of his life. 



24 THE SILENT RIVER. 

MARY. 

And he is blest for it ! my gentle Luke, 
How well that manly tear becomes your eye ! 
This good man's little wealth — how many days 
And nights of utter hopelessness 'twill spare us ! 
While thankfully, as well as proudly, thou 
Shalt think it was thy virtue gain'd it for us. 

luke, (toith increased agitation). 
Go in — go in. 

MARY. 

O, Luke, we'll be so happy \ 
Thou 'It never watch the chilly night again ? 

LUKE. 

No, Mary, no. 

MARY. 

Nor tempt the drifting snows, 
When they have spread alike their horrid smoothness 
O'er path and precipice ? 

LUKE. 

No, never, Mary. 

MARY. 

Nor — nor with clasp'd hands, as I have seen thee, 
With piercing misery behold the heavens 



THE SILENT RIVER. 25 

As if thou wert aweary of the world 
And thy poor Mary too ? 

LUKE. 

I shall be changed — 
Am changed already — changed so much, I scarce 
Can calculate what leagues my soul hath traveled. 
So, now to bed. 

MARY. 

I still have much to ask. 

luke, (alone). 
And I to answer ! She did not suspect : 
She thought I was too honest. My wild brain, 
How stands my present fortune, with the past ? 
Till now I sicken'd at the sight of home, 
Because of the fresh tales of poverty 
That must be told. Well — that is past and gone — 
And do I now return more happily 
With that which must be secret ? Was it harder 
To bear confiding wretchedness than guilt 
In horrid solitude. O, Mary, dear, 
No more shall we two, heart to heart, lie down, 
And, with our mingling fondness, steal away 



26 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Each other's thoughts ! What though so steep'd in 

pain, 
Was it not joy to share them ? Never more 
W r ith their past freedom shall my words pour out 
Their tide of tenderness. O, never more, 
Lest I betray to what that love did lead me, 
And feel thee wither in my breast with horror. 
Thy tender confidence, thy modest pride 
In thy poor hunter of the desert moor 
So much belied ! The smiling, soft, content 
With which thou hast partaken of the morsel, 
More sweet because provided by my hands, 
For ever dash'd. Thy innocent young prayers 
That those to whom thy fate might make thee mother 
Should be their father's image — all recall'd. 
This is not all — there still hath been a hope, 
Some possibility of brighter days, 
But now 'tis past — the work of this dread night 
Hath placed eternity 'twixt me and joy ; 
And every beam that might have lit me onward 
Must blast me with a view more hideous 
Of the black barrier. And is there, then, 



THE SILENT RIVER. 27 

No more behind ? No close attending phantom 
Of a rude rabble and detected felon ? 
No widow'd maniac hooted through the streets 
With sobs and shrieks, or horrid merriment 
That weaves the melody in which it dies ? 
Oh, I have leagued me with a fiend whose grasp 
Is on my heart! {starts). Who's there? {in a tone 
of exhaustion). Good-morrow, Caleb. 
Luke, Caleb. 

CALEB. 

So early rising, Luke ? It is not day. 

LUKE. 

Not day, good Caleb ? No. I see it now : 
I dreamt, or do remember something said 
Of toil betimes this morn, and was unwilling 
To waste your time beneath an idler's casement. 
And why should you desert your scanty rest 
T* anticipate the luckless hours which come 
Too soon at last ? 

CALEB. 

Indeed a scanty rest— 
And yet not more so than my lord's. Last night 



28 THE SILENT RIVER. 

There was small sleep at Willowmead. I found 
Its master anxious for the expected guest, 
And not prepared to spare me the commands 
For which I staid. 

LUKE, (with suppressed eagerness). 
And who was he — The guest ? 

CALEB. 

I did not ask. Those powder'd underlings 
111 sorted with their weather-worn companion. 
At midnight came the stranger in hot haste, 
So splash'd, and mired, and wofully disorder'd, 
You would have sworn some witch had hunted him 
Through all the bogs of Willowmead. 

LUKE. 

What then ?- 
He had a story ? 

CALEB. 

I should guess he had — 
But none to tell, save that he lost his way. 
And then long council pass'd between the friends, 
To which at last a wondering menial 
Was told to bring the fisherman. 'Twas strange; 



THE SILENT RIVER. 29 

The traveller look'd keenly in my face. 
And, running- over a minute description 
Of one he sought, demanded if the like 
Could here be found. It was of you he spoke. 

LUKE. 

Mary, thou 'rt doom'd ! 

CALEB. 

What said you ? 

LUKE. 

Did I speak? 
I said he told thee false. 

CALEB. 

He told me nothing. 
What should he tell ? 

LUKE. 

What nothing, Caleb; nothing 
That made thy honest bosom shake ? 

CALEB. 

No; nothing. 
What is it that makes yours? 

LUKE. 

Your pardon, friend ; 



30 THE SILENT RIVER. 

I thought the rich ne'er talk'd about the wretched 
Without some slanderous tale to prove their vileness. 

CALEB. 

There was much question how you pass'd your life ; 

And when you came ; and, farther still, from whence. 

But this was trusted to me, and remain'd 

As if I had not known it. Long I staid 

To answer each minute particular 

That could at distance bear upon you ; whilst 

At every pause the friends look'd up, to mark 

Each other's looks mysteriously. At last 

I was dismiss'd with cautions to go home 

In silence ; which I hither came to break, 

And wonder what 's to follow. 

LUKE. 

Thou wilt know 
Full soon, perhaps {aside). It was not premature. 
That dream of a discover'd criminal 
Dragg'd to the gallows amid savage mirth 
And widow'd madness! (aloud). Patience, my good 

friend ; 
I ponder o'er thy news, {aside). They will be here 



THE SILENT RIVER. 31 

With murderous haste. What, drag me from my wife ! 
She who went hence, exulting in my honesty, 
With thoughts of measureless delights to come ? 
Drag me a skulking, supplicating thief, 
Debased by infamy, beneath the hound 
We spurn ? And she, my Mary, look upon it ! 
'Tis fix'd. My own beloved, since we must part, 
We'll part less shamefully, {aloud) Whate'er the 

stranger 
Seeks of me, he must wait. My wife will tell thee 
That I have lost a dear and distant friend, 
Whom I depart to bid farewell in earth. 
Caleb, I owe thee many kindnesses, 
And must, perforce, be in thy debt once more. 
Thou wilt protect my wife till I return ? {pauses). 
She is not destitute of wherewithal 
To pay thy care. 

CALEB. 

Why such unkind assurance ? 

LUKE. 

Then hasten, Caleb, and apprise thy wife : 

I '11 bring her straight, good friend. No question now, 



32 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Thou seest I 'm torn with grief, and cannot answer. 
Thou 'It know — thou 'It know it all. 

CALEB. 

Then farewell, Luke, 
I shall expect you gladly. — 



THE SILENT RIVER. 33 



PART III 



Luke and Mary in a boat. 
The Scene varying according to the dialogue* 

MARY. 

Be cautious, Luke ; I do not love this dark 
And sluggish river, which divides its banks 
With such unequal treachery of depth, 
And horrid silence. Often as I Ve cross'd 
The old worm-eaten bridge of tottering planks, 
Which we just see against the deep blue distance, 

I Ve thought of thee, and thy adventurous toil ; 

And then how stilly it would hush the cry, 

And hide the secret, unresisting corse ! 

Oh, it is fearful; and (but it is fancy) 

All things seem fearful here. E'en thou, dear Luke, 

Look'st gloomily and speechless. Pray thee, talk — < 

D 



34 THE SILENT RIVER. 

I cannot bear this silence, only broken 

By the dull plash, and the dead, heavy plunge 

Of water vermin, in the oozing slime. 

LUKE. 

Thou 'rt new to it — but I have breath'd too long 

These muddy vapours for our daily morsel 

To heed the stillness of the summer dawn; 

Or storm of wintry midnight. My poor Mary, 

Thou 'st paid the penalty of thoughtless love 

Dearer than most. Well dost thou know the tone 

Of the chill blasts when they howl round the cabin, 

And find the inmate lonely and desponding ! 

Well dost thou know the tear of bitterness, 

When he, whose absence thou hast sat lamenting, 

Returns o'erpower'd with fasting and fatigue, 

Drench'd with the rain, or shivering with the icicles 

Which cling to him with rattling misery. 

And well, O well ! my Mary, hast thou felt 

The pang, when he, to whom thou'st rush'd for 

comfort, 
With harsh despair repell'd thee from his arms, 
To mutter sternly of successless toil 
And present famine ! 



THE SILENT RIVER. 35 

MARY. 

Why recall such times ? 
Dear Luke, I never murmur'd for myself, 
Neither must thou; for when I see thee smile, 
Our wants seem trifling" payments for such bliss ; 
And I have thank'd the Heavens which granted it, 
And pray'd, that if a richer change of fortune 
Would change thy love, we still might live in want. 

LUKE. 

Yes, thou hast pray'd—'tis good — thou hast pray'd 

much. 
I Ve watch'd thee in thy sleep, when thy white tem- 
ples 
Press'd the coarse pillow with as patient innocence 
As if 'twere made for them. I 've watch'd thee then, 
With thy small fingers clasp' d upon thy breast, 
And movinglips, which show'd thou dream'dstof prayer, 
And thought that I too once was used to pray > 
But fortune only grew more merciless, 
And so I ceas'd. 

MARY. 

O, say not — say not so ! 
My greatest comfort was to think that Heaven 

d2 



36 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Guarded the perils which were enforc'd by love, 
For then the storm about thy houseless head 
Lost half its fury. 

LUKE. 

It will rage no more; 
At least, I shall not hear it, Mary. 

MARY. 

No: 
For thou hast promised ne'er to leave thy rest 
At such dire seasons. 

LUKE. 

I have promised thee, 
My tender, gentle, most beloved Mary. 

MARY. 

Come, thou art sad — Look, how the first faint ray 
Of morn hath startled the old querulous owl 
Amidst his dull and devious wanderings ! 
He hath made straight towards the village barn, 
'Plaining as if he groan'd at his long journey 
Across the marsh, which seen between the twigs 
And leaning trunks of these deserted willows, 
Seems boundless in its flat and hazy empire. 
And see, the heron, with his broad blue sails, 



THE SILENT RIVER. 37 

Wheels downward, to succeed the bird of wisdom — 
O, long-neck' d felon ! That hoarse shout of his 
Is meant to tell thee thou 'rt no fisherman. 
Thou It soon be back to try thy skill with him? 
Thou said'st to-morrow — Thou 'It not break thy 
promise ? 

(Sings). 

" He bade me adieu, and he vow'd to be here 
When swallows came down the green; 
But the leaves of the Autumn are scatter'd and sere, 
A,nd home he hath never been." 

Oh, and is that the tale ! then hear what follows — 

(Sings). 
u So under the wave, and under the waVe, 
Beneath the old willow-tree." 

Mind— mind — dear Luke, your pole will scarcely 

touch 
The bottom ! — You were almost overbalanced 



38 THE SILENT RIVER. 

(Sings). 

u With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave 
Shall my false love find me !" 

Why didst thou start ? 

LUKE. 

I almost ran upon 
Wild Martha's willow- tree, e'en whilst you sang 
Of it. 

MARY. 

Was that it, Luke ? How horribly 
Your words have made it look ! I could stay now, 
And speculate on its fantastic shape 
Most learnedly : — That broad and gnarled head, 
Crown' d with its upright, spiky stubs, and frowning 
Between two mighty sockets, where the wrens 
Have built their nests, hath weigh'd its scathed trunk 
Aslant the pool, o'er which two stunted branches, 
Curling to claws, complete a ramping lion, 
Prepared to plunge on all who dare invade 
Wild Martha's secret cell. — There is a legend. 
How, tangled in the roots, she still remains. 



THE SILENT RIVER* 39 

And tears the fishers' nets, in the vain struggle 
To gain her freedom. Poor distracted Martha ! 
She must have been sore used to do such crime ! 

LUKE. 

'Tis a hard name which thou hast learn d, my Mary, 
For that which, harming none, is the sole means 
To free the wretch from misery — Methinks 
Wild Martha sleeps as soundly in her cave 
As those who rot beneath yon fading steeple — 
Some for their lives were happier, and some 
For they lack'd courage so to end their griefs. 

MARY. 

Thou never spok'st unkindly, and would'st fain 
Excuse what inwardly thou 'rt shuddering at. 
Dost thou forget how often thou hast told me 
How thy stout heart hath quail'd to pass yon tree 
At midnight ? If thou though t'st the hapless girl 
At rest, thou hadst not fear'd. Dost thou remember 

too, 
That April Sunday, when the young violets 
First peer'd between the moss upon the graves, 
How long we saunter'd 'mongst the velvet hillocks, 



40 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Conning rude epitaphs, and moralizing 
In sweetest melancholy? How we linger'd 
Upon the humble bed of good old Adam, 
The village patriarch, who, from Lowliest state, 
Had labour'd on to unpretending comfort, 
And left it to his children's children. Oh ! 
How thou didst reverence that place, and hope, 
Like him, to struggle with thy days of trial ; 
Like him, to sleep the sleep of those who meet 

Those days unmurmuring 

(Luke shows much emotion). 

What, Luke ! dear Luke ! 
I've been too heedless in my pensive talk, 
And thought not of thy present grief. 

LUKE. 

And still 
Forget it, Mary — I was only musing 
If, tempted to the act of her whose bones, 
When skies are clear, may be discern'd far down 
In their strange prison, playing with the eddy, 
I should be left a like unhallow'd empire 
Of fear and utter loneliness. Would'st thou 



THE SILENT RIVER. 41 

Ne'er visit the neglected spot which took 
The latest of thy husband's living looks ? 
Would'st thou refuse to commune with his spirit, 
And say thou'st bought his pardon with thy pray 'rs? 
There is no grief in all the world could sit 
So heavily upon my hour of death, 
As doubt that thou might'st dread my memory, 
And shed no tear o'er him who lov'd thee so. 

MARY. 

Thou reveller in woes impossible ! 

LUKE. 

But tell me, truly. 

MARY. 

I '11 not answer thee ; 
Indeed I will not, Luke : it is not well 
To pay Heaven's bounty with such fearful fancies. 

luke (after a pause). 
Well, then, suppose me laid beside old Adam, 
With decent holiness, what would'st thou do 
To live, my helpless Mary? 

MARY. 

Oh, I ne'er 
Took joy in making misery for thee ! 



42 THE SILENT RIVER. 

LUKE. 

I 'd have thee go directly to the home 
From which I bore thee. Tell thy angry friends 
That he who tempted thee to thy offence 
Toird night and day, till often his worn sinews 
Refused to obey him, for thy maintenance — 
Tell them he loved thee, never used thee ill, 
And ne'er had sent thee back to them to beg, 
Had fate not frozen up his willing hand. 
They will have pity and receive thee, Mary, 
When I am gone. 

MARY. 

When thou art gone ! O, then, 
I shall not need more kindness at their hands 
Than will suffice to lay me by thy side. 
But wherefore, Luke, when thou'rt about to leave me, 
And journey, as thou sayest, to a far place — 
Wherefore so wilful in thy wild endeavours 
To make me weep more sadly o'er thy absence? 
Thou wilt have tears enough. 

LUKE. 

Nay, keep them now ; 
The moment 's not yet come which calls for them. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 43 

This turn hath brought us where we bid farewell, 

And Caleb waits to help thee on the bank. 

Good honest Caleb ! that small hut of his 

Shelters a world of most industrious virtue ! 

All things seem smiling round him — the huge elm 

Spreads his arms o'er him with parental fondness, 

And every day puts forth a livelier green. 

The waving osiers which enclose his path 

Appear to spring more lofty and elastic 

Because his hand hath pruned them. All the hues 

Of his small garden patch look healthily, 

As if a blessing were upon them. All 

His nets which waver, drying, in the air 

Tell how that cheerful home was earn'd, and prove 

No labour, that is honest, is too humble 

To gain the smile of Providence. 

MARY. 

How blest 
Am I to hear thee sav so ! For it shows 
Thou hast forget thy ill-conceal'd despair, 
And in good Caleb's meek prosperity 
Foreseest our own. Nay> 'tis begun already 
In thy poor friend's bequest. 



44 THE SILENT RIVER. 

LUKE. 

Farewell, dear Mary. 
Here we must part, {they land opposite Caleb's cot- 
tage). 

Luke, Mary, Caleb. 

CALEB. 

Welcome, friend Luke, and you, 
My precious charge. Right glad am I to see 
So sweet a face beneath my roof again. 

MARY. 

Thanks, Caleb, thanks. 

LUKE. 

I need not tell thee, Caleb, 
How much thou hast of my good thoughts ; here is 
A proof thou canst not doubt — it is my all. (deli- 
liver ing Mary to him.) 

CALEB. 

It were no lack of hospitality 

Were I to hope so questionless a pledge 

Of thy good-will might quickly be redeem'd. 

MARY. 

Ay, tell me, Luke — when shall we meet again ? 
An hundred times I have besought thee fix 



THE SILENT RIVER. 45 

Thy earliest day, and thou as oft hast turn'd 
To other things, as if that meeting* had 
No joy for thee. 

LUKE. 

O, when we meet again 
'Twill be in joy indeed ! 

MARY. 

And will it so ? 
But when — but when, my Luke ? To-morrow ? No, 
"Twill surely be the next day? 

LUKE, 

Be content. 
Ere then I shall be watching o'er thee. 

MARY. 

Thanks, 
Thanks, thanks, O thanks ! Why, if it be so soon, 
I shall have scarcely time to shed one tear- 
That is — after my foolish eyes are dried. 
Good Caleb, I'm ashamed to see you smile — 
'Tis our first parting. Do not chide me, Luke — 
I cannot help it. (falling on his neck and vteeping), 

LUKE. 

Chide thee, my poor girl ! 



46 THE SILENT RIVER. 

I am too ready in the same offence ; 
But now farewell. Until we meet again 
I'd have thee pass thy time in thinking over 
All that I said to thee upon our way. 
Thou wilt? 

MARY. 

Indeed 'twas very melancholy. 

LUKE. 

But say thou wilt. 

MARY. 

I shall not soon forget ; 
But why art thou so earnest ? 

LUKE. 

Heed it not. 
Thou knowest I have that which makes me sad : 
Perhaps I'm selfish, and would have thee share 
My heaviness. So now once more farewell. 

MARY. 

Adieu, my Luke. 

LUKE. 

Caleb, your hand. 

CALEB. 

God speed 
Your journey, Luke ! 



THE SILENT RIVER. 4/ 

LUKE. 

I hope he will. My Mary, 
One other kiss — which I will keep most holily 
E'en to my bed of death. 

\He re-enters his boat, and pushes off. Caleb 

and Mary looking after him, till an angle of 

the river brings him upon a new scene. 
So now 'tis past ! 
Poor, widow'd, Mary, we shall meet no more ! 

\_The river becomes wider as he proceeds, and, 

at last, expands into a large circular pool. 

He rests upon his pole, and looks slowly and 

cautiously about him. 
This is the place. How fitting for a deed 
Like mine ! The high and shelving banks have nursed 
With their moist clay this fringe of bulrushes 
To an uncommon growth, as if to hide 
All eyes from me, and me from all the world. 
The sun did leap aloft an hour ago, 
But here he hath not been — 'tis scarcely twilight, 
And very, very silent ! How my breath 
Clings to my heart, like the affrighted infant 
Which struggles closer when its parting's nigh 1 



48 THE SILENT RIVER. 

I must be quick. And now that single ray 

Points, like a dial, to the very spot ! 

There the huge whirling eddy in its round 

Comes to its dimpled centre, and glides down 

To unknown depths, bearing whatever floats 

Within its verge in less'ning circles, like 

The eagle wheeling round his prey, until 

It darts on death. The strongest swimmer here 

Must ply for life in vain ! Many are here, 

From chance or choice, who long have lain in secret 

From weeping friends and wives, as I shall do, 

Leaving no thing but vague surmise behind. 

I '11 find their mystery. 

\He pushes the boat into the middle of the pool, 

and then, laying down his pole, sinks upon 

his knees. The scene closes. 



PART IV. 



The Interior of Caleb's Cottage* 
Caleb, Rayland. 

RAYLAND. 

Gone hence this half hour, sayst thou ? Tell me, 

friend, 
Could'st thou not overtake him ? 'Tis of moment 
What I would say. 

CALEB. 

He must pass up the river 
To where his road runs o'er it, for the floods 
Have left the moor too moist in that direction 
To be with ease attempted. If I make 
My way across, I shall be soon enough, 
For he has many windings, and the stream 
Is strong against him. 

RAYLAND. 

Hasten then — your pains 
E 



50 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Shall not in vain be used. And, lest he feel 
Unwilling to return (writing on a leaf of his pocket- 
book), deliver this. 
MARY (singing without, in a melancholy tone). 
" So under the wave, and under the wave, 
Beneath the old willow tree, . 
With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave, 
Shall my false love find me." 

RAYLAND. 

That is a moving voice ! 

CALEB. 

It is Luke's wife : 
'Tis their first parting, and she feels it sorely, 
Though for so short a time. 

RAYLAND. 

Pray send her here — 
I '11 talk with her till he returns — (stands meditating.) 
Rayland, Mary. 

RAYLAND. 

So fair ! 
So delicate ! Lady (for such I call you), 
I've heard that Luke, the fisherman, did wed 



THE SILENT RIVER. 51 

Something beyond himself, but 'tis not possible 
That thou art she ! 

MARY. 

Oj sir ! I thank the heav'ns 
You are as out in this as when you say 
That Luke did wed beyond him — It was I 
Who play'd the usurer in that bargain. 

RAYLAND. 

Well 

But yet, methinks, more fondly said than truly. 
Forgive me, pretty friend, nor think I ask 
Aught without plenteous reason — By what means 
Hath he maintain'd thee for these many months ? 

MARY. 

It was but now you named his toilsome trade. 

RAYLAND. 

'Tis a bleak place to yield subsistence. 

MARY. 

Yes: 

But Luke was labouring for his wife ; and then 
Even the deserts and the floods grew kind. 

rayl and ( after a pause.) 
You said he ne'er was succour'd at the hands 

E 2 



52 THE SILENT RIVER. 

Whence nature should have wrung as much — I mean 
His father's ? 

MARY. 

Sir, I pray you pardon me ; 
I said not so. 

RAYLAND. 

But/ ne'ertheless, 'tis true : 
And thou who art so tender of that father, 
Wert driven from his mansion destitute. 
Thou seest that I know much — Now, then, confess 
How oft distress hath made him curse the name 
For much of his forlorn existence/ which, 
With other usage, had ask'd no repentance. 

MARY. 

You question strangely, sir; but since it takes 
No leave of truth to answer proudly — Never ! 
No babe e'er saw the world, no saint hath left it, 
With less to answer than my loving Luke. 
He never mention'd his relentless father 
Without becoming reverence ; and then 
I Ve heard him sigh to think how bitterly 
The memory of an unoffending son. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 53 

Left from his infancy to all the ills 

Of unprotected poverty, would hang 

Upon that father's death-bed. I have said 

Too much, but 'twas to shield him from reproach. 

RAYLAND. 

No : not a jot too much — 'Tis a hard life, 
Your husband's, and laborious by night 
As well as day ? 

MARY. 

Oh, often I have watch'd 
Till the grey dawn hath peep'd into my lattice, 
And found me lonely still. 

RAYLAND. 

But now 'tis summer; 
And, as I think, his work by night is only 
For the wild winter-fowl. It must be long 
Since you watch'd last ? 

MARY. 

No longer than last night : 
But then he went to see a dying friend, 
And brought back that which smooths his nights 
hereafter. 



54 THE SILENT RIVER. 

rayland (apart, and suddenly resolved), 
'Tis even so ! Despair hath driven him 
To gain by rapine what more guiltily 
I did deny him — Poor unhappy son ! 
How must thy heart have writhed to do this crime ! 
It is in pity to thyself, not me, 
That Heav'n hath set it down thy first, and chance 
Directed thee towards a prize, already 
Meant as an earnest of thy father's love. 
God ! how prophetic thou didst make my conscience ! 
Soon as his trembling hand was on my rein, 
And I beheld then, for the first sad time, 
That pallid count'nance in its agony, 
I bound myself, as if the deed were mine, 
To keep the fearful secret ; for I felt 
I could expect no otherwise to meet him — 
And here *s the faithful mate of all his sorrows, 
Excepting one* — one she must never know, 
To clog the tongue which loves to speak his praise. 

(Aloud.) 
Most fair, most worthy of all love and bliss ! 
Say, if Lord Rayland came with penitence 



THE SILENT RIVER. 55 

To seek the long-neglected Luke, and raise 
The lowly peasant to the peer's proud son, 
Could'st thou forget thy days of lamentation — 
Forgive the hand that would not snatch thee from 
them ? 

MARY. 

Lord Rayland ! 

RAYLAND (embracing her J. 
Dost thou know me ? 

MARY. 

O, my lord, 
I have pray'd Heav'n to let me see you once ! 

RAYLAND. 

Once, and for ever ! and I give thee thanks 

That thou'rt too mild to bow with thy reproach 

One who already trembles with remorse. 

But sort me not with those with whom the wrench 

Of nature's links is pastime. Years were gone 

Before I knew my spirit heaved the breast 

Of any but the sons beneath my eye ; 

And then, 'twixt justice and thy husband, stood 

A haughty woman, jealous of her own. 



56 THE SILENT RIVER. 

O'erruled in part, I yet commissioned one, 
Who prov'd unworthy of his trust, to make 
Such poor amends as could by gold be compass'd, 
For absence of parental countenance. 
Oh ! it was wrong ! and I have paid it deeply ! 
It hath brought down misfortune in such weight 
As might almost be look'd on for atonement. 
Amongst the rest, my wife is dead; my children 
Or dead, or worse, in disregarded duty : 
My home is solitary, but for thee 
And him thou lov'st. 

MARY. 

And who will overpay 
In all a son should be, whatever grief 
May elsewhere have befall' n thee. O, my lord, 
You come to bring us wealth, and ne'er can know 
The half of that son's worth. You should have come 
In want, in sickness, and in sorrow too : 
Then you had seen how his elastic arms 
Had labour'd for your comfort : then you had felt 
How much too tender is that manly heart 
To hoard an evil memory of the past. 



THE SILEXT RIVER. 57 

(Caleb rushes in in great horror). 

RAYLAND. 

What is it, man ? — Speak out ! 

MARY. 

God's mercy, Caleb, 
Why is your look so dreadful ? — Nought of him f 
Nought of my husband ? 

RAYLAND. 

He is dumb with fear. 

CALEB. 

Would I were so for ever ! 

MARY. 

Thou hast something 
Of matchless horror to relate — My husband I 
O, quickly speak ! — My husband ! 

CALEB. 

Did you mark 
No strangeness in his manner when you parted ? 

MARY. 

No — nothing — Yes — 5 God! I charge thee, speak! 

RAYLAND. 

Speak briefly, peasant ; 'tis his father listens — 
Thou sure canst tell what I can live to hear. 



58 THE SILENT RIVER. 

CALEB. 

I used my utmost speed, but the deep fen 
Clung* to my feet, and pluck'd me back, as though 
It were in league with that most damned whirlpool. 
\They stand motionless, whilst he continues. 
My heart misgave me whilst I struggled on : 
I thought of his last look, and labour'd harder, 
And came within a stone's throw of the brink. 
The stream has nothing to oppose its course, 
And glides in deadly silence. Then I heard 
The name of e< Mary," and a plunge, and then 
A suffocating gasp. I heard no more ; 
But, dashing through the rushes which conceaFd 
The drowning man, beheld a quivering arm 
Just vanish in the greedy whirlpool's gorge ! 

MARY. 

But — but — thou say'st— I know — I see thou say'st 
It was not he ! My husband — God ! O God ! 

[She Jails into the arms of Rayland. 

RAYLAND. 

Thou loitering slave ! what need so many words ? 
Thou'dst have me think it was indeed my son. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 59 

CALEB. 

A boat had drifted to the shore — 'twas Luke's. 
I leap'd into % and shouted loud for help. 
Which, haply ; was at hand. Alas, alas ! 
None ever rose ; and none hath e'er been raised, 
Alive or dead, from that dark place ! I left 
My breathless friends lamenting on the bank : 
Their toil was fruitless. 

RAYLAND. 

Awful, heavy wrath ! 
But it is just. O, my devoted son, 
Sharp misery ne'er wrung a tear from thee 
So burning as the one which thou thyself 
Hast called up from thy father's heart ! But how— 
But how canst thou be sure it was my son ? 

CALEB. 

I saw him yesterday wrought to a pitch 
Beyond his custom of impatient grief. 
'Twas one of many blank, successless days, 
And he talk'd madly of his wife and famine. 
I left him late upon the moor. This morn, 
As I return'd from Willow Mead, I found him 



60 THE SILENT RIVER. 

In strange disorder at his cottage door. 
He told me he had slept; his wife just now 
Assured me that he was not home all night, 
And, when he came, he brought, a purse of gold. 
My lord, I 'm sure you best know how he got it. 

RAYLAND. 

Well, well — thou 'dst not betray him — would'st thou, 

man ? 

CALEB. 

Not I, indeed, my lord. Fear, shame, and anguish, 
At what despair and his necessity 
Had done, no doubt, hath caused this dreadful end. 
rayland (after some ineffectual attempts to speak). 
Hast thou a bed to lay this innocent on ? 

CALEB. 

Within, my lord. My wife does love her well, 
And will watch by her tenderly — 

^Rayland supports her out slowly and in great 
agitation. Caleb, having endeavoured to 
preserve his firmness, throws himself into a 
chair, and bursts into tears. 

Poor Luke ! 
This is the saddest way he could have left us ! 



THE SILENT RIVER. 61 

RAYLAND (returning, and looking earnestly at him),, 
Good peasant, thou on whom he had no claim 
Of kindness, wert the only one of all 
Who used him kindly. Where's that cruel gold? 

CALEB. 

My lord, she gave it in my charge just when 

You enter'd. It is here, {raising it from the table). 

RAYLAND. 

Let me look on it — 
Away with it, in mercy. You are poor, 
And my son leaves it to his only friend, 
But, mark me, as thou hopest that it will buy 
Prosperity, be choicer of his secret 
Than of thy life. Now lead me where he lies. 
'Tis just, most just. I came not at his need, 
And angry Heaven hath snatch'd him up from mine. 



PART V. 



The Whirlpool 

MARY {in tvild disorder). 
I HAVE escaped them, keenly as they watch'd ! 
Because, forsooth, I was not fit to stray 
Alone. — I did not love their finery. 
Their downy couch — I could not rest upon it 
As I have rested on our cabin bed : 
And that long mirror did but show my face 
Was very pale and haggard, and methinks 
The limpid stream will do 't as well. Oh, here— 
Twas here my gentle Luke did bid me come. 
He said I should not visit the last spot 
He look'd upon — nor pray — for what ? O, truly, 
That water-lilies might be more abundant. 



THE SILENT RIVER. 63 

He should be here, but is not. Would he were ! 
For I would tell him of that good old man 
Who call'd me his last child, and wept so sadly. 
We shall be joyous now — no more of toil — 
No more of terror : we will think of nothing 
But making every one good, rich, and happy ; 
But we '11 live still in that sequester' d cot, 
And listen when the distant bells do ring 
Good night unto the setting sun, and mark, 
With mirthful eyes, the insects revelling 
In tiny multitudes above the stream. 

\Pausesfor a long time, and then bursts into tears. 
He does not come, and they '11 be here anon 
To take me back to that dull house of mourning: 
I '11 climb this leaning stump and look for him — 
And now I '11 see them ere they come. Why, sure, 
'Tis Martha's willow ! No; that 's farther down. 
It shall be mine, and here I '11 sit all day — 
And night, when I can leave that strange old man : 
And that is eas'ly done, for he is blind — 
Blinded with tears. How gaily do I rock 
In the swift eddy, which doth seem to bear 
Me with it ! — it is very clear ; and yet 



64 THE SILENT RIVER. 

I cannot see the bottom where my Luke 

Hath hid himself. — I '11 call him — Luke! what, Luke ! 

— He does not answer : no — nor Echo neither — 

She will not live in such a dreary place. 

Why, nor will I — I '11 come and seek thee, truant. 

This hollow trunk shall be my bonny boat ; 

It hath been here an hundred years, and stood 

More storms than man hath seen. What is it then 

So heavy in a simple girl, that makes 

It totter thus ? I know — it is my heart. 

How merrily we swing* ! But softly — softly ! 

I '11 tie my birth-day scarf to this tall bulrush, 

That the old man may know where I am gone, 

And light on wherewithal to wipe his eyes. 

There— how the light silk laughs to tell the breeze 

How well we play at hide and seek ! — -Now crack, 

Thou obstinate old tree — crack, crack, I say, 

And bear me to my true love. Every time 

The summer eves come round, we will be seen 

Sailing along on thy old knotty back. 

My Luke shall steer thee with a wish ; whilst I, 

In semblance, twine his hair with dripping flowers. 

Crack, crack, I say= The folks shall come afar 



THE SILENT RIVER. 65 

To see us keep our holiday. Nay, then, 
An thou wilt not, 1 '11 make thee. 

[Shakes the tree, vohich gives tvay, and falls uoith 
her into the tvater. 

Merrily ! 
O, merrily ! I saw them all a coming-; 
But they 're too late to catch me. Nevertheless, 
I '11 sing them, for their pains, a farewell song. 

" Under the wave, and under the wave, 

Beueath the old willow tree ; 
With the weeds for my pall, in a deep, deep grave, 
Shall my false love find me." 

[_ While she sits, carelessly singing, the treejloats 
steadily round the circles of the Whirlpool, 
gradually approaching the centre, in tvhich 
she disappears. 



FAITHFUL AND FOKSAKEN 



F 2 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 

eustache. 

Mehzon. 

Gerault. 

Officers, Gexs-d'armes, &c. 

Annabelle. 
Marguerite. 
Peasantry,, &c. 



PART I. 



Scene— The Country near Paris— Evening.— Ann a- 
belle, Marguerite; Peasant Girls, SfC.dropping 
off by degrees. 

Annabelle {taking Marguerite by the hand.) 
Light-hearted France, whose deepest groans are 

breathed 
To merry pipes and mirth-resounding feet, 
When wilt thou learn to feel ? O, what a brow 
Were this to sparkle in some clime of laughter, 
Where nothing wither'd saving guilt and grief! 
There it were lovely as the smile of seraphs 
Descending heaven to bring a spirit home — 
But here the paler the more beautiful — 



72 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

This eye more wet with pity were more bright — 
This voice more tremulous,, most musical ! 

MARGUERITE. 

Sweet Annabelle, why dost thou -weep ? 

ANNABELLE. 

Alas ! 
Has not each day borne weeds and widowhood 
To every hamlet of romantic Seine ? 
Broke in the midst the lively vintage song, 
And made it end in tears and lamentation ? 
O, we have friends and brothers ! 

MARGUERITE. 

We have lost none. 

ANNABELLE. 

We have the more to lose. Those crimson streets 
Of the dread city never will be dry 
Till every eye and every throbbing vein 

Has paid its tributary drop Didst hear 

That leaden sound come shuddering through the air r 
Did'st hear it, Marguerite ? 

MARGUERITE. 

Too true, I heard 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. /o 

The ceaseless voice of that inhuman engine 
Telling its tale of death. 

AXNABELLE. 

And canst thou guess 
What spirit, newly freed, floats on the wind 
Which passes us : This morn we might have told 
Each star that form'd the blessed constellation 
About our hearts— How may we count them now I 

MARGUERITE. 

Thy fancy is too busy. More than this 
I shard with thee at first, but frequent horrors 
Have grown familiar; and the worn in battle, 
Though he can find a sigh for those who fall, 
Repels the fears for those who may. E'en thou 
Hast not been long a yellow leaf amidst 
The purple wreath of mingling gaiety, 
Circling our rustic homes. IVe seen thee dash 
Thy tears away, and seem the very spirit 
Of mirth and frolic innocence. E"en then 
I Ve seen thee — when yon fatal sound, as now. 
Brought its black mandate through the still, soft 

night, 
To stay our steps, and cast an eye to heav'n — 



74 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

Yield thy unclasped hand to him thou lov'st, 
And force thyself to happiness again. 

ANNABELLE. 

True — I have much to mourn. 

MARGUERITE. 

But yet, not this — 
Some recent grief reflects its vividness 
Upon the fading* colours of the past. 
The time 's gone by thou shouldst have been a bride ; 
And thou dost talk no more of the young soldier 
Who was so dear a theme. 

ANNABELLE. 

It is because 
A worthless maiden's words cannot enrich him. 

MARGUERITE. 

Why art thou changed ? 

ANNABELLE. 

I am too much the same. 

MARGUERITE. 

And he has proved unkind ? 

ANNABELLE. 

O, not unkind ! 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 75 

Yet, if lie were, what right have I to blame him ? 
I had no claim upon his love — no more 
Than the scorch'd pilgrim on the summer breeze, 
And could not chide it when it pass'd away, 
Save with my tears. 

MARGUERITE. 

And hath it pass'd away ? 
Forget him, Annabelle. 

ANNABELLE. 

The withered flower 
Forget the dew that bath'd its morning blossom — 
The orphan d heart forget its mother's breast ! 

MARGUERITE. 

Then will I lose thy love, and tell thee all. 

ANNABELLE. 

Hold, I beseech thee, Marguerite, if aught 
Thou 'dst speak disparagingly of Eustache — 
He never spoke so of his enemies. 

MARGUERITE. 

But does so by his friends. It is not just 

To let thee mourn for what thou shouldst despise. 

Thou dost remember the chateau hard by? 



76 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

Whose airy pillars from their spiry knoll, 
Cleaved, as we fancied, the red streaky sun-set 
Into square furnaces of flame ? We sat 
Amidst the amphitheatre of vineyards, 
Which, twining in their playful luxury, 
Leap'd up to screen the low plebeian world 
From its white walls and ruby-studded windows. 
O, what soft words then mingled with thy soul, 
Like breath of roses„ with the breeze about us ! 
What joy and fondness danced in his dark eye, 
As if they had been conjur'd into life 
By the sweet music of responsive hearts ! 
I gazed apart upon the happiest pair 
That ever sigh'd the twilight hour away. 

ANNA^ELLE. 

Talk on — -the memory of departed bliss 
Is the most dear of sorrows. 

MARGUERITE. 

I employed 
My solitude in watching your lips move, 
And giving meaning to each gentle gesture. 
I thought you playfully described some fair 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 77 

And wealthier maid to his reluctant ear; 
Made her the mistress of that sweet chateau 
And vineyard wilderness, then crown'd her worth 
With love for him, almost as true as thine. 

ANXABELLE. 

I then could jest with him. 

MARGUERITE. 

He look'd reproachfully^ 
Press'd your soft cheek to his, and fondly pointing 
Towards the little star which shone so sweetly 
Directly o'er your honey suckled cottage, 
Seem'd as he swore his happiness and fate 
Were ruled by that and thee. 

ANNABELLE. 

Well, Marguerite — 
My tears prove how I listen. 

MARGUERITE. 

I have done. 
There is a mistress of that tempting home, 
And the fair star that governs thy Eustache 
Hath pass'd into another sphere. 
ANNABELLE. 

There may it shine 



78 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

More constantly, and beauteous Mathilde 
Prove worthy as she *s fortunate and lovely ! 

MARGUERITE. 

Speak you so fondly of her ? 

ANNABELLE. 

And why not ? 
I loved her ere I did suspect the tale 
Of which you deem'd me ignorant ; and now 
His love assures me that I judged her well. 

MARGUERITE. 

Sweet Annabelle, if she deserved your praise 
She would not steal away your early hopes. 
Could you be happy in the smiles of falsehood ? 
Receive the sighs of a cold, truant heart, 
Whilst every one was wafting the faint life 
From innocence that pined in virgin faith ? 
O, no ! Be sure what he hath basely won 
Will prove as base in value. 

ANNABELLE. 

Look — he comes ! 

MARGUERITE. 

How different from the manly honesty 

Which bore him up like the young, stately palm, 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 70 

Whose conscious strength defied the elements ! 
O, guilt and shame have crush'd him like a worm, 
And riveted his once bold eye to the dust ! 

ANNABELLE. 

Leave me, I pray you — I would wish him happy, 
Show I resent not — pardon him, and say 
Farewell — much, much that shakes me to pronounce, 
And him no jot to hear. Nay, weep not for me, 
It is an office I can do myself. 
Young soul, and did I blame thee for not feeling ? 
Resume thy smiles, and never know the pang 
To be forsaken ! 

Annabelle, Eustache. 

ANNABELLE. 

Welcome, dear Eustache ! 
We have been strange of late. 

EUSTACHE. 

I have deserved 
Reproach, and have fear'd to meet it 5 Annabelle. 

ANNABELLE. 

Reproach from me ! O, never ! 

EUSTACHE. 

Then you cease 
To love ? 



80 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

ANNABELLE. 

It is a useless question. Fear not, 
I can be constant and ask no return. 

EUSTACHE. 

I am a wretch whom you should scorn, not love, 
And scarce have virtue to declare my vileness. 

ANNABELLE. 

Needs there excuse to me for choosing her 

Whom you love best ? Did I not always pray 

That no devotion to a hasty promise 

Should be as fatal to yourself as want 

Of worth to me ? Indeed, most dear Eustache, 

I shall be happier to see you happy 

With her you love, than wretched with myself. 

EUSTACHE. 

Fame then hath spared me the hard task of speaking 

My own disgrace. What shall I say, thou dear one ? 

(For dear thou art, though I am false to thee) 

Entreat thee to forget ? I who besought 

Thy love so long — and bade thee swear, and told thee 

What years of paradise each broken vow, 

Like a loos'd fiend, drove withering from thy hopes ! 

And shall I urge thee to receive some other, 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKE K. 81 

Who more deserves thee, to thy wounded bosom ? 

I who so often sigh'd upon that altar 

My shadowy jealousy ? My causeless dreams, 

Of where thou might 9 st have lavish'd thy young ten^ 

derness, 
Had we ne'er met ? I who did fear to die 
Lest I should leave my sacred place to one 
Who might more dearly fill it ? 

ANNABELLE. 

O hush; hush ! 
Though I must love to hear of other times, 
I would not buy the pleasure at thy pain. 
Why should'st thou look back ? Thou who hast so 

much 
Of joy before thee? 

EUSTACHE. 

Joy for me ? — in what ? 
In constant fears that those in whom I trust 
Will leave me to the loneliness of those 
Who trusted me ? Is there a spot on earth, 
A hue in heaven, which hath not something in it 
Which we have dwelt upon together ? Something 
To frown remembrance, penitence, inquietude ? 

G 



82 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

Is there a virtue blooming in the world 

Which will not show thee in thy meek forgiveness? 

Is there a crime which will not make me shrink 

By claiming kindred with the one 'gainst thee ? 

Is there a beauty, bright above the rest, 

Which will not tell me she whom I deserted 

Possess'd it in a blush more paramount ? 

O, Annabelle ! I came to thee with trembling, 

But still prepared, and anxious for reproach ; 

Not to be cursed with pardon. 

ANNABELLE. 

Must I not 
Remain your friend ? — This morn, while yet the sun 
Dwelt with a crimson mist upon our vineyard, 
And purple clouds, like happy lovers, stole 
With smiles and tears into each other's bosom, 
I threw my lattice wide to drink the stream 
Of liquid odours rolling from the south ; 
And then came mix'd with it a marriage song, 
Whose distant melody did seem to dance 
Upon a hundred lips of youthful revelry, 
And bells and flageolets, and all the sounds 
Befitting happiness and summer sunshine. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 83 

'Twas a strange thing* to weep at, yet I wept — 

I know not why. — Some weep for grief, and some 

For joy — but I for neither, or for both 

Mix'd in a feeling more beloved than either, 

Which weigh'd my heart down like a drooping bough 

O'erloaded with its luxury of roses. 

And then — and then — the thoughts of silly maids 

Run wilder than these roving vines — I found 

My hands were clasp'd together, and my spirit 

Stole from my eyes with a dim sense of prayer, 

Which had no words. I begg'd a gentle fortune 

Upon the newly wedded — pray'd I not 

For thee, Eustache ? 

EUSTACHE. 

I thought I had no more 
To tell thee. 

ANNABELLE. 

Nor thou hast, Eustache ; I '11 guess it. 
I know not — I — I shall speak presently. 
I pray you think not that I grieve thou'rt happy; 
For e'en the victim that courts immolation 
To win the garden, blooming with bright stars, 
W r ill writhe beneath the blow that sends it thither. 

g2 



84 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 
EUSTACHE. 

O, if thou meet'st the life that 's due to thee, 
How oft thou 'It drop a pitying tear for him 
Who madly did desert his share of it ! 

ANNABELLE. 

Not madly — no. Be cheerful, dear Eustache — 

I shall do well enough — I must love still, 

For that is life, and that thy bride will spare me ; 

But here is that which I have worn for years, 

Smiled with, and wept with, and almost believed 

It understood rne. O, if it did so, 

And could but speak, I would enjoin it tell thee 

Whene'er a truer heart did beat against it. 

Take it — it is Mathilde's — but do not think 

I yield it up in anger or in pride — 

No, dear Eustache — no more than dwells within 

The fond kiss given with it then and n ow. 

EUSTACHE. 

The first dear present of accepted love ! 
O, hide it — stamp on it—let it be dust— • 
For such I made the lineaments of one 
More faithful, and, like thee, forsaken. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 86 

ANNABELLE. 

Ah! 

The fierce M erzon ! Mathilde's deserted lover ! 
I have a chill foreboding — he hath ne'er 
Enjoy'd the bliss of pardoning an injury, 
And has a heart that would not shrink from blood 
Though 'twere his father's. 

EUSTACHE. 

He is freely welcome 
To every drop of mine, for I do long 
For some dire, speedy vengeance to o'ertake me. 
Thou ne'er wilt know the shuddering of that pause 
When guilt awaits its meed. 

ANNABELLE. 

What men are these ? 

EUSTACHE. 

A troop of minions from the city bandits. 
Reeking from carnage, and in search of fresh. 

ANNABELLE. 

O, wherefore should th' unhallow'd miscreants 
Bring here their death-denouncing steps ? Eustache, 
Thou 'st shown too oft thy manly indignation 
Against the murderers — thou hast cross'd their path 



8G FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

With speech and sword till thou hast roused their 

hate — 
Ah me ! thy virtue was enough for that ! 
Indeed thou must not meet them. 

EUSTACHE. 

Nor avoid — 
I scorn'd the wretches when my life was precious — 
I have less need to fly them now. 
Annabelle, Eustache, Gerault, Officer, 

AND GeNS-D'ArMES. 
GERAULT. 

Eustache, 
Thy hand — we once were comrades. 

EUSTACHE {turning from him). 

Once. 

OFFICER. 

Thou hast some friends, Eustache, who see with pity 

Thy daily horror at these grievous times, — 

Some who would spare thee more continuance of it. 

EUSTACHE. 

'Tis kind indeed; and, for the courtesy, 
I '11 pray for them and thee that ye may find 
The good ye give, and that right speedily, — 
Come, sir, unfold. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 87 

GERAULT. 

Thou'rt suramon'd to thy trial. 

EUSTACHE. 

Most rapid payment ! fatal, but most just ! 

My mind is too straight-forward to love forms — 

Death cannot come more welcome than to him 

That's out of love with life. Your mock tribunal 

Will never hear me plead to it, nor revel 

In the sweet pastime of denying mercy 

To suppliant Eustache ; therefore, at once, 

Beseech ye, feed your longing to behold 

The blood that spurns ye. ( To Annabelle) Mute, 

thou faithful one ! 
Thou It not be so where thy fond voice can aid me. 
On, sir — I am as ready to be led 
As thou to lead me. 

GERAULT. 

Now, by heaven, young soldier, 
Thou 'st made me hate my office. I have heard 
The howling of a thousand recreants 
Unmoved, but tamely to destroy the brave 
Is the worst blot on bravery. 

ANNABELLE (rushing to Mm). 

Bless thee, bless thee ! 



88 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

Thou wilt return, and take, instead of blood, 
All good men's prayers for ever ! 

GERAULT. 

Would I could — 
But see [pointing to his attendants), 'tis past my 

power to befriend him; . 
A word would make me partner in his fate. 

ANNABELLE. 

Art thou not human ? 

officer (advancing to Eustache). 

We delay too long*. 
annabelle ( t flingi?ig one arm round Eustache, and 

opposing ivith the other). 
Stand off ! who dares to place a villain's hand 
Upon Eustache ? I can be proud as humble, 
And will not sue to these for e'en thy life — 
Do ye not hear ? lead on ! 

eustache. 

And so farewell ! 

ANNABELLE. 

Leave thee i / leave thee ! Let Mathilde enjoy 
Thy sunshine — in the storm thou 'rt mine again ! 

officer {placing his hand upon her). 
We must divide ye. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. S9 
EUSTACHE. 

Hold (to Gerault). Thou rt less a wretch. 
Lead her with kindness home, she 's youug in sorrow, 
And never learnt hard usage till I taught her. 
Farewell, farewell ! \_Ex\t voith the rest, 

ANNABELLE (falling into the arms of Gerault}. 
Now thou art false indeed ! 



PART II. 



Scene. — Montmartre. 

ANNABELLE, GERAULT. 
GERAULT. 

Rest — rest, poor maid. 

ANNABELLE. 

'Tis all one world of black, 
No hill, no tower from its vapoury bed 
Leaps up to mark the bounds of earth and heaven. 
The stars too glide and glimmer underneath us 
Like those above. Where are we, gentle guide ? 

GERAULT. 

Those lights are burning in the sleepless city. 

This height thou'st trod with happier feet ere now — 

Bewildered girl, dost thou forget Montmartre ? 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. [) 1 

ANNABELLE. 

O, thou dost well remind me ! for this scene 
Is known as loved, and that is truly. Here 
Each summer eve I parted with Eustache, 
And first did learn to weep. 

GERAULT. 

And here, as then, 
I 'd have thee turn towards thy innocent home, 
And learn to smile again. 

ANNABELLE. 

To smile ! on whom ? 
Thou madest a promise and an oath. O think 
How base is he who cheats the broken-hearted ! 

GERAULT. 

Mistrust me not. I grieve, but will be faithful. 

ANNABELLE. 

So shalt thou gain a blessing which thou It count 
Amongst the sun-beams of a stormy life : 
A scatter'd plank to save thee from despair 
When seas of blood would overwhelm thy death-bed. 

GERAULT. 

Yet, 'tis a fearful place thou 'dst have me show thee. 



92 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

ANNABELLE. 

And fearful is my need. Thou 'rt wavering still ; 
Thine oath ! remember ! 

GERAULT. 

I suspect thy purpose 
Is something desperate. At thy feet, sweet maid, 
I do beseech thy pity on thyself. 

ANNABELLE. 

Came I not here in pity of myself? 

Here lies our downward path. I do believe 

That thou wert made for tenderness and virtue, 

And walk'd in crime by accident. Alas ! 

I can but pay thy labour with my thanks. 

A Prison. 

EUSTACHE AND GUARD. 
EUSTACHE. 

The hours pass slowly — tell me, if you will, 
How near my last approaches ? 

GUARD. 

It is midnight 
Already. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 93 

EUSTACHE. 

The last minute that was granted 
To my desire, and yet Mathilde not here ! 
I did entreat a swifter messenger. 

GUARD. 

Perhaps the maid is wise, and better loves 
To meet new friends than say farewell to old, 

EUSTACHE. 

And wilt thou jeer the dying ? If thy soul 
Were not too crusted in with blood and murder 
I could relate enough to make it human. 

guard. 
So every one of you believes his fate 
The hardest ; and, for partings and last wills, 
And whatsoe'er comes readiest, implores 
Fresh work for the tribunal's ministers, 
To wait and watch till he hath heart to die. 

EUSTACHE. 

Was it for dread of death I ask'd to live ? 
Thou slanderer ! What if the same wild day 
Beheld thee wreathed in blushing bridal fetters, 
Then saw them sudden changed to links of iron, 



94 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

And these so soon to yield their victim up 
To bondage in a blood-bedappled shroud ? 
Wouldst thou not long" for some fond, faithful ear 
To listen while thou saidst, te These thing's are strange?" 

GUARD. 

But still this wonderer comes not. 

EUSTACHE. 

Poor Mathilde ! 
Wedded and widow'd in a day, thy spirit 
Hath too much woman in it not to sink : 
Thou canst not come. Yet she whom I forsook 
Was firm and fond enough to share my dungeon ! 
—I heard a knocking ! 

guard. 

'Twas the workman's hammer 
Joining the sledge that bears thee to thy doom : 
Thou art more honour'd than the herd of culprits. 

eustache (in deep thought). 
I tempted thee to falsehood — Can it be 
Thou wert too apt a pupil ? Fie ! 'tis savage 
To doubt thy truth ere yet the virgin blush 
Hath left thy cheek. Thou wilt be here.— A cry ! — 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 95 

GUARD. 

It is the rabble crowding round the portal 
To see thee pass The guard is turning out. 

EU ST ACHE. 

My heart beats strangely lest she should not come ! 

GUARD. 

Why, thou dost shake ! 

EUSTACHE. 

No matter,, say 'tis fear ; 
And though thou liest I will not tell thee so — 
My mind 's too busy to care what thou think'st, — 

[_r elapsing. 
I cannot die till I hare heard thee swear 
Eternal hatred of the foe whose hand 
In secret malice writes me down for carnage ; 
I cannot die till I have bade thee love 
The poor — poor injured Annabelle (knocking). Thou 

heard'st ? 
It is a knocking, and now death is over — 
And I 'm in heaven. My wife ! Mathilde ! 

[The door opens and Merzon enters. 

Merzon ! 



96 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

MERZON. 

Thou sent'st a message to Mathilde, Eustache. 

EUSTACHE. 

And did she fix on thee to bring the answer ? 

MERZON. 

Did she not well to choose so dear a friend ? 
I have been comforting the wedded maid, 
And come to say how well she is resign'd 
To give thee to a better world. 

EUSTACHE. 

Thou comfort her? 
The loathed, the spurn'd Merzon, whom, Heaven 

judge me, 
I pitied for the distance I did fling him ! 

MERZON. 

Thou wert indeed almost victorious ; 
Therefore 'twas needful to remove thee quickly. 

EUSTACHE. 

And wilt thou boast thou wert not brave enough 
To meet me with an equal manliness ? 

MERZON. 

Were the wrong equal, so were our contention ; 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 97 

We do not yield the robber stab for stab. 

List, for thy time is brief. Thou didst believe 

That thou wert wed to never-dying faith 

Which shadow-like wou]d follow all thy fortunes 

With equal steps — presumptuous aspirant ! 

What claim hadst thou to excellence so far 

Above the reach of more deserving* men ? 

Thy truth to her to whom thou first wert plighted ? 

What hope r thy bride's tried constancy to me ? 

Alas ! thou It find her weak, and wavering 

As thou thyself. 

EUSTACHE. 

Thou shameless and despised ! 
If such the prize, why has the loss of it 
Thus driven thee to damn thyself? 

MERZON. 

'Twas said 
I lov'd the maid — 'twas true — I lov'd her beauty. 
'Twas said she had discarded me for thee; 
And this was true. Now tell when prince or peer 
Hath laid his hand on ought that pleas'd the will 
Or deck'd the honour of Merzon, and liv'd ? 
What more ? I pass'd into the revel throng, 

H 



98 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

And sate me by the mistress of the feast. 
Some marvell'd that thy absence should so far 
Belie thy promise, some that thy place was fill'd 
By me 9 the whilst the bride spoke tremblingly 
To bid me welcome to the wedding cheer. 

EUSTACHE. 

She spoke thee fair lest thou shouldst shed her blood. 

MERZON. 

The time went by — the pausing mirth revived, 

And all believed I came in friendliness 

To banish idle fears of my revenge ; 

While, 'midst the busy sounds of lute and song, 

I told my grief, and woke a soft remorse 

In her who listened. 

EUSTACHE. 

And who listen'd only 
For a defender from thy cursed tongue. 

MERZON. 

She sigh'd and wept — " She knew not half my love, 
She had been rash ; yet, since the deed was done, 
We must henceforth meet only in our prayers." 
At length comes one with ghastly face to tell 
The dire mischance which had befall'n the bridegroom; 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. P9 

And there were wonder and becoming woe, 
And tears in some, and prophecies repeated, 
Which beldames muttered whilst the priest was 

joining ye — 
How two false-hearted never could be blest, 
And sudden wrath would follow. And what then ? 
The scared Mathilde sobb'd loudly with affright 
And disappointment of her marriage hopes ; 
Whilst I renew'd the offer of my love, 
And kind forgetfulness of all the past 

EUSTACHE. 

Ay, and she spurn'd thee. 

MERZON. 

No ; she was too thankful. 

EUSTACHE. 

O, my good guard be blest, and loose my chains 
One instant whilst I tear this liar piecemeal. 

MERZON. 

Alas, poor youth, thou hast not strength enough 
To carry thine own weight ! I will have done. 
A season pass'd in pitiful remembrance, 
And decent weeds shall faithfully be paid thee ; 
Nor will I chide her if, in after times, 

h2 



100 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

She drops a wandering tear upon thy tomb, 
Or lulls me with the strain you taught her. 

EUSTACHE. 

Monster ! 
He hath destroy'd her, or she had been here 
To scare him back to hell ! 

merzon. 

She is come here 
To witness what I speak. Here is the ring 
Which made ye one. She drew it from her finger 
With horror, lest some unimagined judgment 
Should fall upon the wearer ; and returns it 
By me, with pray'rs, that thou wilt die repentant. 

(To himself, as he walks slowly out, looking 
steadily back upon Eustache). 
Ay ! doth he writhe ? — he made me live in torment : 
And thus in torment will I have him die. 

eustache {clasping his hands). 
Be merciful, and teach me ere I die, 
That this bad man doth wrong her ! 

GUARD. 

Come, prepare. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 101 

EUSTACHE. 

Not yet — not yet. 

GUARD. 

We have delay'd too long". 
I do endanger my own safety. 

EUSTACHE. 

Oh! 

If thou dost die for sparing me one moment, 
Thy sins will be forgiven thee ! 

GUARD. 

Impossible — 
I pity thee, but have no power to spare. 

EUSTACHE (kneeling). 
Look — look — I kneel to thee, and thou dost weep. 
I am afraid to die. 

GUARD. 

Thou hast been brave ; 
Go nobly to thy death, 

EUSTACHE. 

And so I will, 
Let me but know my wife is innocent, 
My blood shall gush with laughter from my veins ! 



102 faithful and forsaken. 

Eustache, Guard, Gens-d'Arme. 
eustache. 
Nov/, now, my messenger, let loose thy words, 
Like one that 's pleading for his life. Thou saw'st 
Mathilde. 

gens d'arme. 
And did thy message 

EUSTACHE. 

And the answer ? 
gens d'arme. 
The lady wept, and said a friend would bring it. 
(Eustache dashes himself upon the ground). 
I 've seen Eustache stand boldly in the battle. 

guard. 
Would he had died there ! it hath wrung my heart 
To look upon his anguish. His accuser 
Was here but now to crush him with the news 
Of his young bride's unworthiness. I would 
Have stabb'd the wretch ; but dar'd not for his power. 

gens d'arme. 
His case is hard — 'twere best to free him quickly. 
Come, rouse him. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 103 

GUARD. 

Now for pity do't thyself; 
I 'm only fit for common cruelties. 
gens d'arme. 
Why, man, he hath a comrade in his death 
Would move thee more — a delicate young boy, 
And lovely as a maiden. I look'd on 
The whilst he stood before our dread tribunal ; 
And when maturer victims groan'd and wept, 
His cheek seem'd pale with sorrow more than fear : 
He heard his sentence with a smile, and ask'd 
No mercy saving leave to empt his veins 
In the same current with Eustache. He comes, 
I could not harm a thing so beautiful. 

guard. 
Who hath denounced him ? 

gens d'arme. 

None that I could hear ; 
I saw him pressing thro' the crowd to join 
A string of criminals who stood for sentence, 
And there, in spite of one who strove to hold him 
With tears and prayers, he gain'd what seem'd his 
wish. 



104 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

The Above. Annabelle (as a peasant boy), 

Gerault, Guards, &c. 

annabelle {rushing to Eustache, bends over him, 

and speaks in a suppressed tone). 
Thou 'rt mine at last— our blood will now be wedded 
In a sweet stream, sacred to faithful love ! 

[The death-bell tolls . 
eustache {springing up). 
Mathilde, Mathilde ! are there so many here, 
And thou away ? 

GERAULT. 

Be patient, good Eustache ; 
If she forgets thee, thou art still beloved 
As never man hath been. 

EUSTACHE. 

I hear thee not t 
I cannot for the beating of my heart ; 
He said he was to marry her ! my wife ! 
O, no, no, no ! which of you all will gain 
The blessing of a dying man, and say 
That she is dead ? 

[He sinks overpowered upon the bosom of Anna- 
belle. 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 105 

ANNABELLE. 

He hath forgotten me. 

EUSTACHE. 

Why do we stay ? on, on, sweet friends, to death, 

For I am braver than the reeking Mars, 

And scent my own blood with a raven's longing ! 

Pale, faithful, and forsaken Annabelle, 

Was it for this I blanch'd thy blooming cheek ? 

Come hither one of you — I have a word 

Of special trust (to Annabelle). There is a gentle girl 

Who hath been faithful to me since the day 

When first her eye look'd love and loveliness. 

Succeeding years bestow'd their tribute graces, 

And with each grace, it seem'd, increasing fondness ; 

Till radiant womanhood had made her perfect. 

Well then, I snatch'd the prize, and with a soul 

Tumultuous in its passionate gratitude 

Knelt down and shudder'd my wild thanks to Heaven. 

Fool, fool and villain ! She was voon — what more 

Could such an idiot wish for? I forsook her, 

Forgot at once her tenderness and tears, 

And married with another. O, good youth, 

Teach me some dying message to this maid 

Of fitting sorrow and reviving love; 



106 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

For I am bow'd with humbleness, and have 
No power to instruct thee. 

ANNABELLE. 

Shall I say 
Thou hast resumed thy faith ? 

EUSTACHE. 

She will not trust thee, 
Say, if thou canst, all that a dying man 
Can feel when those he cherished have proved false, 
Those he deserted true. 

ANNABELLE. 

Thy Annabelle 
Believes and is most blest ! now we will go 
In triumph to our bridal's crimson altar, 
And with commingling spirits gaze upon 
Our nuptial moon in Paradise. 

GERAULT, 

'Tis true ; 
This faithful maid is come to die with thee. 

EUSTACHE. 

Hold, let me breathe — -my Annabelle ? to die ? 
To die with me ? O, pity me, ye Heavens ! 

ANNABELLE. 

It is in vain ; thou canst not leave me now, 



FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 107 

Tho' thou unkindly shouldst desire it. Know 
Yon grave tribunal, gentler than Eustache, 
Did hear my prayers, and framed a crime for me 
Which I confess'd, more gladly than my love 
When first you ask'd it — (to Geraidt.) Take my 

latest thanks. 
At morn seek out the youthful Marguerite, 
And tell my story, with this fond addition : 
I left no dearer friend than her and thee. 
Thy hand, most dear Eustache. 

EUSTACHE. 

Almighty Heaven, 
Requite my guilt less terribly! 'Tis just 
I suffer, but is death too little ? Must I 
Know the last eye that would have wept my fall 
Closes untimely with my own ? The voice — 
The only voice that had excused thy wrongs, . 
And smoothed my name, can utter no lament ! 
O, mercy, mercy ! let not one so soft 
Inflict a pang so subtle. 

ANNABELLE. 

Thou 'It forgive me. 
My heart betray' d, or I had died with thee 
An unknown partner. 



108 FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. 

EUSTACHE. 

Mercy ! yet, no mercy ! 
O, that white brow, and those sweet raven braids 
Which have reposed upon my heart so oft — 
A moment hence, and where will they repose ? 
Where, where that delicate, devoted form 
Which the vile mob shall stand to gaze upon, 
And wonder what the features might have been ? 
'Tis the last time that mortal lips shall touch them. 

[Clasping her violently. 
annabelle (the death bell tolling). 
Hark to that sound ! it is our marriage peal ! 

EUSTACHE. 

Sweet Annabelle ! 

ANNABELLE. 

Come, come, the choir is waiting 
To sing us into paradise ! 

EUSTACHE. 

O, God ! 

{They go out hand in hand, followed by the 

rest. 

THE END. 

London : Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars. 



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